Painted Over

by Sofi Keren

  It was like they were back to casual acquaintances, instead of having been friends since they were kids. Elena was a new X factor thrown into the mix, changing the entire equation. She just hoped Ria and Elena couldn’t tell how uncomfortable she was.

  Brandon offered to drive and Ria happily handed over the keys. Paige called shotgun, not quite ready to be alone with Ria or, god forbid, Elena, who somehow managed to look glamorous even in faded blue jeans, a sunny yellow tank top, and a slouchy off-white cardigan on top. Paige alternated between making idle conversation with Brandon and eavesdropping on Ria and Elena’s conversation.

  An hour in, they stopped to get gas and buy the unhealthy gas station snacks that can only be justified on a road trip. Elena purchased water and a packet of mixed nuts. Of course, Paige thought, as she looked down at her own choice of Diet Mountain Dew and salt and vinegar chips. She felt like such a boorish American in comparison.

  “Paige,” Elena said, her accent mushing up the letters of her name in a beautiful way, “would you mind trading places with me for a while? I sometimes feel a little ill in cars and sitting in the front helps.”

  “Oh yeah, of course. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize. The front seat is all yours.” At least the girl wasn’t one hundred percent perfect. She immediately felt guilty. It wasn’t Elena’s fault she was gorgeous and from what she could tell, really sweet as well. If Paige felt plain and a little boring, that was her own fault.

  Paige climbed into the back seat as Ria got in across from her.

  “Oh, I just figured you’d want to drive,” she said, surprised.

  “Nah,” Ria replied. “Brandon seems like he’s got this covered, and I’m totally fine with not having to navigate Chicago traffic.”

  She wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt nervous and awkward. Maybe she was just anxious about her upcoming meeting with the mural’s project manager. That was probably it.

  Everyone buckled in and they headed back out on the highway. Ria and Paige sat in an awkward silence for a while, looking out the windows at the long stretches of farmland. Brandon and Elena immediately struck up a conversation about the windmills that dotted the landscape. He made a joke about Don Quixote and tilting at windmills that Elena seemed to find hilarious, but Paige couldn’t make out the whole conversation over the music he’d put on.

  “She seems nice,” Paige said, breaking the silence. “Elena.”

  “She is,” Ria said. “Though I wish I’d known she was coming to visit.”

  “You really didn’t know she was going to be here?”

  “It was a surprise. I mentioned that I’d be home for a while, and about the school dedication, but I never thought she’d actually come. She’s like that, though. Adventurous. Unpredictable. Likes to go wherever the idea takes her.”

  “I wish I were that spontaneous,” Paige said, a little wistfully. “You know I’ve always been a planner. I can’t help it.”

  “I like that about you.” Ria smiled. “You always have everything we need whenever we go somewhere. I bet right now you have Kleenex, quarters, a variety of writing implements, and a spare phone charger in your bag.”

  “I… Well, all of those things are necessities.” Paige blushed. She wasn’t sure why she felt embarrassed about being prepared.

  “It’s great. I’m better than I used to be. Constant travel for games helps. Helped, I guess. I even have a packing list of all the things I need. And…usually someone can help if—ok, when—I forget something.”

  “Is it going to be weird now? Not traveling with the team and a posse of support staff?”

  “Probably, but I’m also looking forward to it a little. For years someone else has made my schedule—when to leave, where to go, interviews to give, practice time, photo shoots, game time, even recommendations of when to go to sleep. I’m ready to handle my own shit now, you know?”

  Paige nodded, even though she couldn’t really imagine all that. “I’m probably the opposite. I’m less structured than ever. When I really get into a project, I’ll stay up late and sleep all day. Sometimes I won’t leave my studio for a day or two. And then I pretty much sleep for days to make up for it.”

  “I’d love to see what you’re working on sometime, if that would be ok.”

  “Oh.” Paige stopped short. “I mean, sure. If you want to.”

  “I’ve seen some of your work—at least the concert posters and album covers. Is that mainly what you focus on now, or do you work on other projects as well?”

  “I have some pieces I’ve been working on when I have time. I’m not sure where they’re going yet, though. You’re welcome to see them, if you want, as long as you know they’re not quite finished. And you can get a sneak peek at the new Slurs album cover if you want. That’s my main project right now, other than this mural.”

  They made small talk for a little while—Ria’s friends from the team, Paige’s art and lots of catching up on each other’s families. But still, nothing too personal. And Paige definitely did not ask about Elena, or where that was going. It seemed a little too soon, and she didn’t feel like she’d earned the right to ask about such personal things yet. It didn’t help that when she thought about it, she felt a tiny pang of jealousy. She chalked that up to wanting to reconnect with Ria and having to share her time with someone else.

  As the Chicago skyline came into view, Paige lapsed into silence. The bridge into Chicago was so huge. Its cables were thick and held the structure up high in the air. Indy was a big enough city, but it didn’t have anything on this scale.

  Her dad took her up to Chicago once as a kid, when he had a business trip at the same time as her fall break. He’d rolled down the window and she’d rode with her chin on the frame, amazed at the skyline and the giant bridge that spanned the gap. She’d imagined it was how New York City looked.

  Ria was quiet next to her. Brandon and Elena seemed to be observing a moment of silence as well. The majesty of an engineering feat took center stage as they drove into the city.

  Once across the bridge, Paige leaned forward, giving Brandon directions through the busy streets. With only a few wrong turns and close calls with speed-walking pedestrians, they rolled up next to the art gallery where Paige was to meet Cara Bless Williams. She wondered how she should address her. Cara? Cara Bless? Ms. Williams? She didn’t want to be overly formal, but she also didn’t want to come off too familiar. This project was too important.

  She checked her makeup and hair in a compact. Her blond locks were mostly under control in a loose bun, and she’d resisted the urge to shovel on the eyeliner. Good enough, she thought. She promised to meet the group later at Chicago Diner, her favorite restaurant in the city. She was already craving one of their cookie dough peanut butter shakes, and it was only a few blocks away from the gallery.

  The outside of the building was three-story brick, the windows filled with cubed glass that made it impossible to see inside. A large wooden sign hung above the door. Mazy Gallery. Its icon was two puzzle pieces that touched but which weren’t quite the right shape to connect. Paige wondered if it would be tacky to ask about the meaning behind it.

  Pulling the door open, she was surprised at the darkness inside. They knew she was coming, didn’t they? She turned to go back outside and double check her email. Maybe she’d remembered the time wrong, or forgotten to account for the time difference…

  “Paige?” a woman’s voice floated from just around the corner, past the initial darkness. “Is that you?”

  “Oh, hi! Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Come on in. Sorry, the entrance is a little dark but we’re open!”

  Paige walked toward the voice, keeping her arms out so she wouldn’t bump into the wall—or a priceless sculpture. As she came around the corner, suddenly there was light. The main gallery was dimly lit by streams of daylight from the glass-block window. The electric lights blinked on overhead, bringing the place to a glow. The brick walls were interspersed with sections of white, each pane
l holding a framed painting or drawing. It was almost cozy, and it displayed the artwork well.

  She stepped up to one of the paintings, a portrait of an old woman staring defiantly at the viewer. She couldn’t help but stare back. The woman seemed to be challenging the viewer to judge her wrinkles, her gray hair, the age spots.

  “Wow,” she said aloud. The woman who walked up next to her looked like she was straight out of central casting for an art gallery owner: petite, with thick, dark hair caught up in an ornate twist. Her olive skin and strong profile added to her air of worldly glamour. She looked almost ageless, but Paige guessed she was close to forty. She wore navy cigarette pants with high heels that would have broken Paige’s ankle if she’d tried to walk in them, and a gray shimmery tunic that hung on her like a model. Paige immediately wished she’d worn more than her faded black skinny jeans and a striped button-down.

  “I love this one. It’s part of a series by Carol Belgium. She’s eighty-nine years old, and she didn’t start painting until she retired. She says she’s simultaneously challenging the idea that older people should just disappear and the assumption that artistic talent is something you have to be born knowing how to do.”

  “It’s a gorgeous piece.”

  “I think so too. I’m Cara. It’s wonderful to meet you, Paige.” They shook hands, and Paige couldn’t help but notice her handshake was strong, but not in a way that made her own feel weak. She’d always hated shaking hands, misjudging how still to hold her hand, how much force to use to pump the other person’s up and down. It seemed like she was always showing someone a glaring character flaw in that momentary contact. But this handshake made her feel like an equal.

  “Thank you,” Paige replied. “I’m so glad you could meet with me today.”

  “You’re the one who traveled hours to get here. I should be thanking you. How was your drive? I’ve never actually been to Indianapolis, but I know it’s quite a distance away.”

  “It was relatively painless. I drove up with some friends and they helped make the time go by faster.”

  “Wonderful! Well, let me show you around my place, and then we can sit down and talk about the mural. As long as the weather holds, we can go over and see the space when we’re done. Does that sound all right?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Cara walked her through the gallery, periodically stopping to view a piece.

  “I opened this place about three years ago. I’m originally from LA, and I worked in several galleries there, mostly contemporary art.”

  “Oh, I love LA. I went to UCLA there for a little over a year.”

  “Did you ever take classes with Dana Winter? She’s a good friend of mine.”

  “I heard of her, but never had the chance. I ended up leaving the program a little early for family reasons.”

  “Ah. I got to know her when we worked on an installation together. That’s mainly what I focused on out there—video and large immersive pieces. In those days it was all about pushing the boundaries of what was called art. But eventually I started to circle back to pieces that were more permanent. Paintings, drawings, sculptures have a timeless feel, even when the subject matter is daring.”

  “How did you end up in Chicago? It’s so different than LA.”

  Cara laughed. “For the reason so many of us move to a place we never would have expected. Love. I followed a woman I thought was the love of my life. She was an architect and was working on a project in LA. We met at one of my gallery openings, and I was immediately smitten. Of course, if I’d known she was from such a cold and windy place, I might have focused my attentions elsewhere.” She smiled.

  “But by the time I knew she was from halfway across the country, it was too late. I would have followed her anywhere. I pulled up my roots, took a job at the Art Institute, and bought some coats and sweaters. It’s a wonderful museum, have you been?” Paige nodded. “But smaller galleries really are my passion. And when my partner and I divorced, I took my half of the money and bought this place.”

  “Oh,” Paige said. “I’m so sorry. About the divorce, I mean. The place is beautiful.”

  Cara waved her hands. “Passion doesn’t always last. I have no regrets. And it brought me here. I would probably never have come on my own. All this…weather! But, it’s where I belong. And there is a different quality to the art being made here. It’s more…heartfelt, I think, than some of the work I was encountering back in LA. It’s not about making a splash, attracting celebrity attention, hoping to land on Angelina Jolie’s wall. Or at least, not the work that I represent. I search for work that has strong technique and that also reaches through the medium to touch you, whether that’s to tell you something, scream at you, make you sad, or bring you joy. These days, I search for work that tells personal stories that are also about the broader world.”

  As Cara talked, Paige listened, enraptured. It was like she was speaking a language Paige had been trying to find the words for all along. She could have listened to it all day. She’d forgotten how much she loved talking about art. Her friends in Indy were creative types, but they were more into music, like Brandon, or theater or writing. It was close, but not the same.

  “Now, the mural project,” Cara continued. “That’s not only my project. It was the committee’s—artists, gallery owners, city officials, and community representatives. Quite the mixed bag of bureaucrats and art folk. We all had to agree on the design. And we’re not supposed to reveal how everyone voted but…” She leaned over conspiratorially. “Yours was the one everyone couldn’t stop talking about. At first I was a little skeptical of the theme we selected. “Home in the Midwestern City” just sounded so… generic. But it was a starting point, and you never know what artists will create when you give them a beginning kernel. I’m always in support of public art, whether or not I like the piece. It creates discussion and adds visual interest to the otherwise utilitarian city.”

  “I agree,” Paige said. “In Indianapolis, the main branch of the public library has what looks like a giant chocolate donut attached to it. I have no idea what it’s about. And I haven’t tried to find out because I love the incongruity of it. I prefer imagining why someone created a chocolate donut sculpture to go on such a stately building, and thinking about all the layers of approvals it had to go through to become a permanent fixture.”

  Cara smiled. “Exactly. Perhaps you can show me this chocolate donut if I visit Indianapolis sometime?”

  “I’d be happy to,” Paige said, though the idea of showing Cara around her hometown was a little intimidating.

  Cara led Paige back to a small office, where they sat down at a beautifully restored 1920’s secretary desk to talk about the logistical details of the mural. They discussed materials and equipment, the best dates to begin painting if weather cooperated, and accommodations for Paige’s stay during that time.

  “I do want to talk about evolving your piece a little more. I love it, but I think once you see the space you’ll want to make a few changes. Are you ready to go see where the piece will have its home?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Perfect. Then just one moment while I change my shoes.”

  Paige was relieved. She’d been trying to imagine how anyone could walk on those towering heels through the streets of Chicago without tripping.

  Cara opened a desk drawer and pulled out a pale blue pair of Keds. Paige almost laughed. She had not expected that. She immediately thought back to all the pairs of Keds she’d worn throughout childhood, in various colors and designs. Who knew that Keds were so uncool that they were cool again? Or perhaps Cara could just make everything seem effortlessly stylish.

  Locking the door behind them, Cara led her through the city, narrating its history along the way. For such a recent transplant, she had gathered up information about her new home quickly. Paige imagined that was part of what made her so successful—being interested in everything and everyone around her, collecting it all and sharing the information f
orward.

  Finally, Cara stopped and pointed up. It was Paige’s wall. She’d seen it online, of course, but seeing it now in person, it looked so…huge. She breathed deeply. This was where her work was going to live. Four stories high, towering above the people walking past. How many people would see her piece every single day as they walked to work, home, on dates, out shopping? It would become a little piece of their lives, whether they thought about it or not. She couldn’t help it. One tear escaped and then another.

  Cara smiled at her but didn’t say anything. She gave her the moment without commentary, seeming to understand why Paige was crying.

  It was as though her whole life had led her here. Every dead end, every misstep, argument, or crumpled up drawing brought her to this wall, which was now hers to adorn. Her art would cover it until the wind and rain and snow slowly eroded it years into the future. And even that would be part of the perfect cycle of life.

  When she told Cara that she was meeting her friends at Chicago Diner, Cara insisted on walking with her.

  “I want to know more about you,” she said. So Paige told her she’d always drawn as a kid, about the great art teachers in junior high and high school that encouraged her, and walked her through her style and subject matter evolution. Cara nodded and smiled, asking questions that kept her talking about herself and her work.

  “There is a question I like to ask artists when I meet them for the first time,” Cara said. “I know it puts you on the spot, but I’d like know: What has been the most meaningful piece you have created to date? Not necessarily the one that received the most praise, brought in the most money, or is the best known, but the one that is closest to your heart.”

  “That is a tough question to answer,” Paige said, thinking over the work she’d created in the past decade and a half.

  “The best ones are, I think.”